It’s sweet and thoughtful and makes me smile. I pour myself a cup and go back onto the screened-in porch to drink it. Tulip limps out after me, looking pitiful. Though her spirits really have come back up. I feed her and give her her medicine, and then fill up my mug once more to take with me to work.
Going into the office at the front of the house, I open the top drawer to look for a paper and pen to write Owen a little thank you for the coffee note. There’s not much in the top drawer other than an unopened package of gel pens, a box of paperclips, and a stapler.
Not wanting to open the new package of pens, I move to the second drawer. This one isn’t nearly as organized as the last, and I pick up a large envelope to see if there are any pens underneath it.
I assume it’s sealed—my mistake. Photographs fall out, scattering across the hardwood floor.
“Oh shit,” I mumble and crouch down to pick them up. My throat catches when I turn the first one over, looking down at Owen and my smiling faces. We can’t be any older than sixteen in this photo. We’re at the drive-in theater, and Logan and some girl are in the background behind us.
I shouldn’t pry. I shouldn’t look to see what other photos are in the envelope…but I do have to pick up the rest that spilled out.
The next is also of us, out on the town with friends. I stick it back into the envelope, trying hard not to let my heart override my head. I’ve seen firsthand what that can do to people, and more specifically, to me.
The third photo I pick up is just of me. I remember Owen taking this one, back when the camera on his phone was impressive with its colored yet grainy photos. There’s only one more photo that fell out, and I bite my lip as I pick it up and flip it over. It’s another one of us, and I don’t know how to process this.
Owen has a secret stash of photos of us from our childhood. Is it sweet? Creepy? A sign that he might be a hoarder or can’t let go of the past?
Or that, like me, he hasn’t been able to move on either?
There are a bunch of loose pens in that drawer. I grab one, put the photos away, and go back into the kitchen to write a note on a napkin.
Owen-
Thanks for the coffee. See you tonight.
-Charlie
I don’t know if he’s working tonight or if he’ll be here when I get done at the firm. But I do know I’m going to need some new clothes…and Libby would really love to have space to keep her dolls away from Jack, who grabs them by the hair and pulls off their shoes. Again, I know our issue of all being crammed into one house isn’t really an issue at all when I think about how bad others have it. But if I wasn’t there taking up another room, it would give my sister and her family a bit more breathing room.
Leaving the note in front of the coffee pot, I look around the tidy kitchen and smile. Maybe staying here for a few more weeks won’t be that bad. As long as I don’t go doing something stupid.
Like Owen.* * *
“Charlie!”
I turn and see a brunette woman waving at me from behind the counter of the bakery. It’s Danielle, Logan’s wife. I stopped in during my lunch break, and this place is packed.
“Hi,” I say, waving back. I’m behind two people in line, and Danielle steps out, motioning for me to come over by her. “How are you feeling? I mean, how are you doing?”
“It’s okay. I know Logan told you. And very good.” She smiles, making me think she got good news from the doctor. I don’t know her well enough to ask about a private matter. “We invited everyone over for dinner tonight to tell them the news. I’m not sure if Logan’s talked to Owen or not yet, but I’d love if you came as well. No pressure or anything if you don’t want to,” she adds quickly.
“Thanks, and yes, I’d love to come. I don’t know if Owen’s working or not tonight, though. I, uh, didn’t ask.”
“He’s opening this morning and then Logan was able to get someone else to take the rest of his shift. I help manage the schedules still,” she explains. “That’s how I met Logan, actually. I used to bartend.”
“Oh, nice. I didn’t know that.”
“So you and Owen met back in high school?”
“We met way before then, actually, but we, uh, started dating then.” My throat starts to feel a little tight. What the hell is wrong with me. I’m level-headed, able to keep my cool even when I’m freaking the fuck out on the inside. Whatever anxiety or fear or jitters I’m feeling never surface. Now I’m fumbling over words and my nerves are physically manifesting.